A year later my canoe touched the same 

 old landing. For ten months I had been in 

 ^ilJooIeeh the city, where Killooleet never sings, and 

 ^J^tHe where the wilderness is only a memory. In 

 V^i'ce the fall, on some long . tramps, I had occa- 

 sional glimpses of the little singer, solitary 

 now and silent, stealing southward ahead of 

 the winter. In the spring he showed himself 

 rarely in the underbrush, on country roads, 

 eager, restless, chirping, hurrying northward 

 where the streams were clear and the big 

 woods budding. But never a song in all 

 that time ; my ears were hungry for his voice 

 as I leaped out to run eagerly to the big 

 cedar. There were the stakes, and the tin 

 plate, and the bark roof all crushed by the 

 snows of winter. The bread was gone ; 

 what Killooleet had spared, Tookhees the 

 wood mouse had eaten thankfully. I found 

 the old tent poles and put up my house 

 leisurely, a hundred happy memories throng- 

 ing about me. In the midst of them came a 

 call, a clear whistle, — and there he was, the 

 same full cravat, the same bright cap, and 

 the same perfect song to set my nerves 



